


Three Men Walk into a Bar ~~or~~ Retirement Planning

by Dart



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: 00Q Reverse Big Bang, Age Difference, BAMF!Q, Hand Feeding, How Much Does Mallory Know?, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22312780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dart/pseuds/Dart
Summary: This is the middle, and an end, and a beginning. On the eve of a mission that’s raised red flags from the start, what does James Bond remember? What does heknow?Whom does he trust? What will he risk?~~~or~~~Surely James Bond and Q would be drawn together in any form, under any name, from that very first meeting.~~~or~~~“You make it sound like you made a deal with the devil.”“I did. Mansfield.”
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 93
Kudos: 96
Collections: 2019-2020 00Q Reverse Big Bang





	1. In the Doorway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Untitled 1](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/552037) by Boffin1710. 



> This story is for the wonderful Boffin1710! This is my first Reverse Big Bang and I was so pleased to receive his gorgeous art for my prompt for the 2019-2020 Reverse Big Bang. It all started with this artwork in my inbox. I looked at it and the very first scene fell out of my head. I was given free rein without even a title to steer me, and _here we are._
> 
> Special thanks to my beta, Midrashic. She heard my whining earlier this month and came to my rescue. Her support was so important. And her editing skills are much appreciated. You should know, dear reader, that I made several additions after her last pass, so any "what the hell?!" rests solely at my feet.
> 
> I would also like to thank AtoTheBean for encouraging me and talking some particulars through with me and looking over a draft. 
> 
> Zephyrfox, as always, has been kind and supportive. 
> 
> Thanks also to Sandywormbook for watching a particular TV show with me. It stuck in my head for a while.
> 
> And thanks to lapsang-and-earlgrey for some fashion resources.
> 
> Things you might want to know: There is an age difference. And reference is made to Q having an older lover when he was 18.

Standing just inside the doorway, James Bond didn’t fool himself thinking he’d gone undetected. Unacknowledged, yes, but never undetected.

“I remember when you couldn’t stand the taste of whisky,” he said.

“Careful, Commander, remembering can be hazardous to one’s health.”

The man who went by Q was sitting with his legs crossed, a tumbler of whisky resting on his right calf.

Bond pulled the solid oak door to the private club room closed behind him.

**~~~00~~~**

**< 11 HOURS AGO>**

While it wasn’t unheard of for 007 and Q to be called to Mallory’s office together, Bond was wary of the “I am going to make you do this and you’re not going to like it” expression on Mallory’s face. He slouched harder, which made it easier for him to indulge his habit of watching Q, studying him on the sly. Q looked professional, but then he damned near always did. Unbitten lips, unconcerned about being in trouble then. Circles under eyes slightly better than usual, all agents momentarily accounted for then. He turned his eye to Q’s clothing. The fit of the trousers was impeccable, but the tattersall might put him off watercress for the week. The white shirt was a solid choice, but hidden away under yet another ludicrous cardigan. He was wearing his hair longer. Why? Bond wondered if it was to please someone and felt a flare of jealousy. Always the same Univo glasses. Wait, no, these didn’t have the tiny scratch on the temple. A spare? Hmmm.

Mallory said, “While it is a bit unusual, you will be joining 007 in the field for this mission, Quartermaster.”

“It’s not _unusual_ , it is never an option,” Q said. “No.”

James faded into the background, but was watching Q’s facial expressions intently now.

“Well, I’m afraid I must insist.”

“No. Absolutely not,” Q said.

“It doesn’t matter what you pref—”

Q cut him off, “This was a point of negotiation.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid any number of negotiated points are going to be up for renegotiation. And fair warning, don’t be surprised when your budget line items start coming under scrutiny.”

“This is not up for renegotiation. None of the negotiated points are up for renegotiation. That was rather the point.”

“Be that as it may, your presence is required in the field for this mission, Quartermaster.” 

Q said, “I strongly advise against sending me out into the field. This is a can of worms you do not want to open.”

They kept going back and forth. Q took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It looked like he was slowly folding, but Bond didn’t buy it.

“Damnit, Q! You’re not listening! It doesn’t matter what you negotiated with Mansfield! You answer to me.”

The look on Q’s face was a little too close to “Do I?”

“You know it’s a new world. We can’t go on like we always have.”

_There._ It looked as though something inside of Q sat up and purred. Mallory didn’t notice it, he was too busy laying down the law, but James sure as hell noticed it. _What the fuck was that?_

Mallory thought Q was trying to weasel out of something he found distasteful, but Q had realized something and he had shifted from honest protestation to “Oh no! Don’t throw me in the briar patch!” He didn’t want to cave, not truly, but there must be some advantage in it. Bond would watch and wait.

When Mallory looked away for his grand soliloquy on the state of intelligence, Q gave a little bloodthirsty smirk. Bond saw teeth. Q surely knew Bond was watching. He could suppress that if he wanted to, what was the purpose of letting Bond see it?

Once Mallory finished, Q wrapped up his defense flawlessly, “Mansfield put stipulations in place for the good of MI6. MI6 came first for her. I have to wonder where this pressure is coming from, _M.”_

_The sass on this one._

It looked like Mallory was only thinking of budget oversight and sending Q into the field, but Q, Q looked like he was considering the existence of things Mallory had never even heard of. Mallory had lost some sort of battle he didn’t even know he’d been fighting.

As they left, James thought _what the hell just happened?_


	2. Exit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Exit, swimming]

As they exited Mallory’s office, M called for Miss Moneypenny.

“007, with me,” Q said as he strode away, out and through to the hallway.

James followed.  _ Odd.  _ Q fiddled with his watch and stopped in a particular spot in the hallway that Bond knew to be a surveillance blind spot.

Q turned back to Bond and touched his forearm, saying, “James. This is me, letting you know, something has changed.” He searched James’ face. “Eight o’clock.”

James didn’t even try to keep his brow from furrowing. “What? Where?”

“Do keep up, James. I’m letting you know.”

“Letting me know  _ what?” _

"If you’ve forgotten, I suppose that means,” Q leaned in and said, “ _ this,”  _ and after a beat continued, “wasn’t very important to you after all.”

“Q?” James said.

“James. This is me. Letting you know. Something has changed.” Then he turned and walked away.

As he watched him go, Bond thought, again,  _ What the fuck was that?  _ He shook his head.

Frustrated, 007 did what he often did when he couldn’t solve a problem with violence or intimidation; he went down to the swimming pool. He exercised in many ways and quite often, but he found a good long swim a reliable means to retrieve the reluctant, allowing his brain to mull things over and see what dredged up. He could focus on the pull of his arms, the slice through the water, the scrunch of his toes and the press of the tile against the balls of his feet pushing off the wall mid-turn, while letting most of his mind wander through the endless repetitions. It wasn’t the inviting waters of the Caribbean, but it beat the hell out of a slushy loch.

He shoved aside all of the red flags from the meeting and swam, racking up the laps. Picking apart the mission briefing could come after. He focused on not focusing on what Q had just said to him. Q had acted as if there were a location embedded in his message. Some sort of code then.

He repeated the words over and over.  _ James. This is me. Letting you know. Something has changed. James. This is me. Letting you know. Something has changed.  _

_ James.  _ Q never called him James. It was always Bond or 007 or rarely, Commander Bond. Except... He swam on, the sound of Q’s voice in his ears. Except he had. Once. Bond made a point of never thinking of that night, but he thought back to it now.  He didn’t  push down the echoes of that visceral reaction. He grit his teeth and let them come. He let the sense memories unfold until he could hear the clink of glasses, feel his nails dig into his palms. Letting you know. Something changing.  _ Ah ha.  _ That was it. He knew where to meet him. 

Bond finished his lap, lifted himself up out of the water and grabbed his towel. He would need to go by his flat to change.


	3. Rant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q goes on a rant if only to himself.

Times have changed but one thing that has never changed is men in suits saying how times have changed as an excuse for doing what should not be permitted. “It’s all a matter of policy son. Surely you can understand, times have changed,” in that condescending ingratiating motherfucking voice.

But you know that’s bullshit. The fact of the matter is these men in suits aren’t wanting to throw another man under the bus because the times have changed. No, nothing’s changed. Someone’s always gotten thrown under the bus. Not on Q’s watch. He will be having none of that nonsense. And when the powers that be go through Mallory to try to limit Q’s powers, to backtrack on a signed and sealed contract, on promises made in blood—because times have changed—he will show them that not one goddamn thing has changed. He can still level cities, strip a man of his existence, and leave not a single trace of the man or himself. They will rue the day they got out of bed with this stupid idea of tangling with him, if they even live that long. Because not only is Q a force to be reckoned with, he has a trained pet Double O at his side, at his heels, at his back, and if James has a problem with that, well, Q has miscalculated everything. And Q miscalculates nothing.


	4. The Third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last parting.

**< NOW>**

It was an inexplicably modern room with its designer white leather chairs and dusky Berber carpet, considering the rest of the positively ancient gentlemen’s club was firmly stuck in the stodgy heyday of the Empire. And Q, Q was as unexpected as the room’s interior, in his Kiton black jeans, white Berluti slim-fit shirt, and Salvatore Ferragamo oxfords. Still designer, but none of the eye-catching colors or patterns. A less discerning eye would never mistake these for a grandfather’s castoffs. No, this Q was meticulous in his fashion sense, in his exacting coldness. Most notably, gone were the Univo glasses. 

Q offered nothing, though he openly watched Bond now that he had broken the protective seal of silence with his words.

Bond knew better than to ask if that was a threat. Clearly it was not. He would have specified “remembering can be hazardous to _your_ health.” Though perhaps it was a threat to both of them. To Bond for remembering and to Q for being remembered, for existing outside of this moment.

“I wasn’t aware one could wear such things to this prestigious establishment.”

“I can. Special treatment for special services. This is my room.”

“Save them from a ruin, did you?”

“Of a sort. There was the potential for…unpleasantness. I took care of it.”

Each took their time studying the other.

Finally Bond asked, “Q?” 

“In a sense.” And then, “Later you may remember me differently.”

“I remember—” James began.

Q cut him off, “Not here.”

 _Not here. Not here, never here._ “Then where?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

“You think we’ll ever find someplace _quiet?”_

James remembered the first time he saw him, long before he became Q. Young, his face so open. The laugh, the smile, the burst of music when he giggled. _Josiffe._ An entirely different experience (in your mouth, on your lips—the name, and the man). He remembered how he'd thought at times maybe he had dreamt it—that ethereal Q—but there had been a moment of extended eye contact in the National Gallery. _I see you. You saw me._ Unspoken. So much remained unspoken. The safest way to communicate. The ways they communicate without words...

James would have come closer, run the pads of his index and middle fingers along Q’s jaw, but he wouldn’t be touched, not like this.

“You’re still remembering,” Q said.

It was hard to reckon how the face in front of him could be so open. The same skin, the same bones could light up. The same twitch of muscle.

“It doesn’t do to dwell on ghosts,” Q continued.

Bond’s voice was soft. “How’s it a ghost if he’s not dead?”

“No. Not dead.”

“Waiting?”

“Never mind that. We are here to visit another matter,” Q said. He gestured for Bond to take a seat.

James poured himself a whisky first and asked, “The mission?”

Q had the look he wore when James was being stupid and couldn’t keep up.

It wasn’t just the clothes, it was his carriage. This wasn’t his Quartermaster. Not exactly. But James had seen him before. In the aftermath of some hellish ordeal. When he had to go to bat against big wigs over something gone wrong, pulling his people’s asses out of the exploding fire. While the minions called him their “supreme overlord,” there were whispers of "avenging angel" after the Dunbar episode. But James couldn’t help but wonder if avenging demon might be more apt. _Quartermaster Vengeance Mode._ That’s what R had called it when he’d asked after Greta.

Q finally said, “Retirement planning.”

“I know you’re not wanting to discuss throwing a party.”

“I hate it when you play stupid.”

“Yes, but usually you don’t acknowledge it. It’s in the tension of your brow, the set of your jaw.” 

“James. First, I need to know…loyalty.”

“I won’t betray England, Q. Not for anyone.”

Q rolled his eyes. “I’m counting on that, James. I won’t betray England, but what if MI6 is at odds with England?”

“What do you mean?”

“I would never move against England or betray England, but you have to understand. I hold no loyalty to the Finance and Strategy department, to old men in Whitehall."

James kept his gaze steady, waiting.

“After England, my loyalty is to my agents,” Q finished.

James thought of the moments Q pushed back and hard. To bring his agents home. Even if it was a body. _It mattered._

He thought of Greta, and said, “And your minions.”

“You have to understand, surely? There will be no retirement for 007.”

“Is it wise to discuss this…here?”

“I told you. This is my room. We can discuss anything here.”

James raised an eyebrow.

“Anything I wish to discuss,” Q clarified.

James tilted his glass of whisky, watching the whisky stone slide across the bottom. “I haven’t had delusions of a quiet life in a long time, Q.” 

“They’ll let you go as easily as they’ll let me go. We know too much, too risky. It’s always been a hazard of men like us, but they are…particularly risk-averse—which is to say we’ll get a bullet between the eyes.”

“Q, you are far too valuable.”

Q lifted his hand. “Your time will likely come first. Given that I will flat-out balk or intervene, disobey a direct order to flub what is to be your final mission, I will let you in to my contingency plans because it is likely that once I make it clear that I will not stand for your death, you’ll be sent after me to ensure mine.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I’m sure there’s some scenario they would feed you. No? Well, if not you, someone else then.”

Bond looked into his glass. Calculating.

Q gave a grim snort. “You’re trying to figure out who they’d send? I’d set the world on fire before I willingly let you go.”

Bond took a drink and then said, “If I was dead? All of them.”

Q smiled. It was a cold pleased thing. “If they had any sense.”

They sat in the quiet and drank their whisky. So many things reminded Bond of that boy—being back in the club, those tousled curls. Q looked young even now, but he must have _been_ young then. The first time. The memory is like a snapshot—the wild curls, his expression open, widening smile lighting up—not just his face but the room.

“We can’t recapture the past, Bond.”

“You really think we have a future?”

A rueful laugh. “No, but we might at long last give it some breathing room.”

Bond moved his hand closer, but not enough to touch. A ghost of the memory of a gesture, a slight caressing motion toward Q’s lower cheek.

“I catch a glimpse of the bud of that smile sometimes. Maybe when you are playing with one of your minions making something new and cool, maybe it’s late at night or on a less stressed day after you’ve had some sleep.”

“Spare me your haunt down memory lane, Bond. If I’m to throw away my promising career in espionage, I need to know.”

“Know what?”

“The second time I met you here…Do you still?"

“I don’t understand,” Bond said

“I told you. Something’s changed.”

“Yes. I still have no idea what that means.”

Q looked affronted. “How did you know to come here?”

“You called me James.”

Q raised his eyebrows.

“This is the only place you’ve called me James.”

Q frowned.

“You’re upset that I was a bit lost when you picked up mid-conversation from 3 years ago.”

“If it was important, I thought you’d remember.”

“I remember. You were wearing that very blue chalk stripe suit of yours and I thought you were going to shred the cocktail cuffs to tatters, the way you kept tugging on them. You were worrying your lip with your teeth.” James decided to lay out his cards. “I remember the feeling in my gut, how it sank and turned to concrete. The bile in my throat. You turned me down. Well, it was the grand turn-down to end all future turn-downs. Don’t tell me I don’t remember.”

“What did I say?”

“Some excuse about work place regs.”

“Not that bit, the next bit."

“What? How should I know? Or remember? It’s been 3 years.”

“Must not have been very important then,“ Q said in the same exact way he said earlier after saying, “I’m letting you know.”

Bond grabbed his forearm. “You’d let me know.”

“And I did.”

“Things have changed.” Bond’s mind raced, piecing things together. “It was Mallory. Negotiating. Your contract?”

“M, _our M,_ said if one of us reneged on any point, then the whole contract was thrown out.”

"You make it sound like you made a contract with the devil." 

“I did. Mansfield."

“You didn’t insist on staying out of the field?”

“ _She_ insisted I couldn’t be _sent_ into the field.”

“And I was a point?” He could feel the smugness on his face. 

“Does it matter if it was any 00, any employee or you specifically?”

“Of course it matters.”

Q rolled his eyes.

“Oh just tell me already.”

“Among other things, I was not allowed to consort with you, specifically.”

“That _bitch!”_

“M said it would be an unholy alliance.”

“She used to say that about Alec and me.”

Q winced.

James gave him a searching look.

“As Quartermaster, I was also not allowed to look into 006’s deep undercover mission.”

“ _Alec.”_

“I’ll look into 006 as soon as we are clear from this mission, James.”

James slowly finished his glass and then poured more before saying, “It warms my cold dead heart to hear you say, ‘ _our M.’”_

“Please. Your heart gets nearly as much action as your cock. You fell in love just last month.” 

James snorted and tilted his head in acquiescence. Then raised his glass. “To the cold-hearted dragon queen bitch of numbers.” 

Q drank, but then said, "I’d put more emphasis on _bitch_. I never forgave her for having you shot off that train. Nor Moneypenny, though no one else knows that.” He crossed his arms. “We’re not the friends she thinks we are. Which would surely be a shame according to people who can still feel right. Josiffe would get on with her. Q—Q feigns the extent of friendship. But well, _he_ wouldn’t walk away without administering first aid. Probably.”

James was perplexed. “I’ve forgiven her.”

“Of course you have, you old dick on legs.”

“You should forgive her, Q.”

Q gave a short cackle. “My grudges will outlive me. Moneypenny’s just lucky she didn’t threaten my dog.”

“And M?”

“Our M made a contract with me. We each had a gun to the other’s head. But she would not have broken it willy-nilly. She never forgot I was a snake she had picked up. She would not have stood for her own department head being undermined to the detriment of her agency.”

“She would have had the bastards shot.”

“She’d have sent you to do it.”

“Naturally.” James preened. “Shall you send me to do it, Q? I’ve quite the CV.”

“No, James. At least not initially. We shall play along for now. Play into their assumptions and stereotypes. Let them kill themselves into a false sense of security while they sink deeper into the tar pit of underestimating us. Particularly me, of course.”

“Moneypenny gave me an absolute bollocking for leading the poor Quartermaster on and breaking his heart and being an insensitive bastard.”

“Well, it just won’t do to have people actually knowing our business.”

“So you played it off as Q being heartbroken and smitten.”

“Don’t forget pathetic.”

“When it was really me pursuing you.”

“Do I really need to lecture you about the value of having everyone misestimate and underestimate both of us?” “Besides, I told you, it wasn’t unwanted. And I _was_. It just wasn’t your fault.”

“Truly?” 

“I told you I _knew_. And I did. It’s never waned for me.”

“Who were you with, that first night we met?” James asked.

Q threw a coaster at him. 

James grinned.

“Edward, my _employer._ And lover.”

James’ eyes tightened. 

“He went home and put me to bed. And not in the _good_ way. Thanks to you.”

“Aren’t you going to ask what I was doing there?” 

“Dinner invitation from The Honourable George Campbell, friend of your late father. I assumed your ridiculous introduction was an invitation to look into you.”

“Employer _and_ lover? How did that come about?” James asked.

“Well it wasn’t my idea to be kept. I wanted to work with horses. And I needed out of my house. And I always needed money back then.”

“Why did you need out of your house?”

“I left home because, well, I suppose it’s the same reason anyone ever leaves home—because I couldn’t stay.”

Bond raised an eyebrow.

“Anyway, I quite enjoyed working with the horses. It was his, Edward’s, idea to…seduce and fuck me over a hay bale.”

“Your first time over a bale of hay? I’ll dig him up and kill him again.”

“Oh no, the first 37 times were proper, in a bed and everything. But later…he had a bit of a stable _thing_ I’m afraid.”

Bond raised a faux shocked eyebrow. 

“Not that sort of fetish! Just near the hay, not actually over it, the smell of tack, me grubby at the end of a work day.” Q scrunched up his face. “I’m not one to kink-shame, but that plug seems like it would be god awful…all those tickly strands of hair.” He shivered. 

_Ticklish._ Bond noted. 

“He left you the membership? To the club?”

“Not exactly. He did think I came to adore it.” Q made a face. “Though the only times I was eager to go was after you and I met.” Q closed his eyes and smiled like he was remembering. “I always hoped to see you again. Even so, I thought it might come in handy, which”—he gave Bond a look over—“I suppose it has.”

They quietly drank. Sometimes making eye contact, sometimes not. Bond wasn’t feeling the whisky yet, not really, but it looked like Q was starting to.

“The way people used to be so kind to me. No, Bond, not the ones who wanted to fuck me.” He messed with his hair in a fashion that recalled Josiffe. “I could never understand it. It used to overwhelm me, make me cry. I haven’t cried in a very long time.”

“I imagine people couldn’t help but love you. Want to feed you. Want to protect you.”

“I can protect myself!”

“Yes, you certainly can. You’re strong.”

Q huffed. “People never see that.”

“People are…mostly a liability.”

Q said, “You still haven’t answered my question.” Then he leaned forward and asked, “Are you going to jeopardize me?” 

“You mean, am I going to fuck off with the first pretty thing that crosses our path?” 

Q did not recoil. “3 years ago, I put you off. I had to. Things have changed. Do you still want me?”

“If things had been different,” James said.

“You mean if I’d been _your_ kept boy?”

James grimaced. “I draw a hard line on underage, Q.”

“Well, I suppose congratulations are in order, anytime someone in this business can hang onto anything resembling a moral.” Then Q _moved._ His mouth was now close to James’ ear. “Still, I _was_ of age. You could have fed and clothed me and kept me safe, until whatever magical age in your mind allowed you to fuck me into the mattress. But no, if you’d waited that long, I suppose it’d have been unbearably sweet and tender.”

“You overestimate my willpower.”

Q moved back to look at James. “Considerate then. Gentle.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“But you thought about it. Have thought about it since.”

“What’s that you said about it not doing to dwell on the past?”

Q sat back in his chair. James twisted his glass and eyed him.

“And if I want to go out on a suicide mission?” James finally asked.

“I will drag you back from Hell itself, you loathsome and infuriating man.”

“What do you want, Q?”

“What I’ve always wanted, to survive.”

“No, what you used to want back before you had to worry about surviving, what was it you wanted then? Don’t you still want that?”

“You don’t get to know that,” Q said, but it sounded like he added, “Not yet,” under his breath.

“We still need to discuss the mission,” Bond said. 

“All you have to do is look pretty and at the right moment, kill everyone.”

“But our objective?”

Q waved his hand. “It’s bait. Someone is pulling the strings. In their stupid little brains, they think they’ll gain control of me or strip me of power or god knows what really. They think this is backing me into some sort of corner.”

“We should refuse the mission then.”

“Ha. Clearly, I tried that.”

“For about five minutes, but you know I saw the minute you decided to use it to your advantage.”

“Yes, well, I’ve waited so long, if Mallory was insisting on releasing me from that damnable contract and handing you over to me, who was I to turn away what I’ve always wanted? Besides, this gives me a good opportunity to crush whoever this enemy is.”

“Do you know?”

“Oh, I have some ideas.”

Q wouldn’t expand on that, so Bond asked, “How in the world did you become Q?”

“Late Onset of Sense of Self Preservation.”

James laughed, but Q did not.

“I certainly hope you are more focused in the field, Commander Bond. You’re doing an extremely poor job of interrogating me.”

“You’re not a mark, Q.”

Q looked unconvinced.

“I trust you.” 

Q looked one part pleased and two parts appalled.

“Anyway, I need to take you shopping,” Bond said.

“No. No, you don’t.”

“Well, I at least need to see your clothes ahead of time, so I’m not surprised.”

“Please. I will always surprise you. And you are an open book, James Bond.”

“Not to anyone else. Besides, it could be fun.”

“ _Fun.”_

“MI6 is paying.”

Q raised his glass to that.

The lapses in conversation were frequent, but not awkward. And surely Q was used to James' eyes on him by now. Studying, cataloguing.

At last, Q said, “You read the briefing. You know the part I’m meant to play. I wasn’t insincere when I insisted Mallory give us this time period to acclimate to our cover. We’re meant to be lovers. I’m meant to catch and keep the mark's eye. It’s not flipping a switch. I need time, but come round in the morning. I’ll be vulnerable, I want you with me. I don’t intend to part, not before the end.” 

“Q, we need to come to an understanding about what’s...required.”

“Yes, I protested this mission. It’s bad for MI6. But do not misunderstand. I could walk away, disappear if I truly wanted to. But, make no mistake, I will protect what’s _mine._ I foresee a certain…level of messiness, but no matter. We’ll be ready for it.”

“I meant the sex, Q.”

Q rolled his eyes. “Of course it isn’t my preferred choice of locations and times to bed you, James, but I’m certainly not opposed to being on this mission with you in this way. And no matter what Q branch and E branch are deluding themselves with, there will be copious fucking.”

“They’re using you as bait.”

“We’ll trust each other to see us through this.”

James did not reply.

“James. No one else alive will get to see me like this. I trust you.”

They finished their drinks in silence. Q instructed James where and when to come over in the morning, and then he showed him out. The last thing Q said to him was “And for god’s sake, lose the suit.”


	5. The First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James walks home and remembers.

The first time he had set foot in the Long Bar, James Bond had been meeting a friend of his father at the positively ancient gentleman’s club for dinner. Bond had just been starting at MI6, but hadn’t lost the regulation navy haircut. He wasn’t that long off the boat, but still unbearably cocksure. His first impression of the dining room was one foot in the bank vault and the other in the grave.

The conversation was awkward. The friend had that air of well meaning old friend who had never actually bothered to do anything. Perhaps he was also of the sort for whom other people didn’t exist until they turned 30. Whatever possessed him to give a shit now, Bond wasn’t interested in reopening old wounds. Lucky for him, there was a lovely distraction just a few white tablecloth-covered tables away. He had watched the young man surreptitiously over the various courses. He’d mentally dubbed him “the boy” because compared to the median age of the esteemed members, he was practically an infant. 

On anyone else, he’d have noticed the wild inky curls first, his fingers might have itched to bury themselves and tug, just enough. Or his eyes might have returned the heat in those bright green wide eyes if he could catch them long enough. His lips might have longed to kiss the tips of the never still long fingers. But it was the sunlight in that fleeting but exuberant smile that lit something in him.

Bond had excused himself to the loo and was straightening his tie when the door had swung open and the boy he’d been watching nearly fell through it. He’d composed himself about halfway and then said, “Oh, hello. I thought this would be empty.”

“Did you now?”

“It usually is.”

“Escape your dinner companion often?”

"No, there are just so many rules and it’s nice to—” he’d gestured to his grin and continued, “drop the fake pleasant expression now and then. I’m not supposed to smile so much.”

“Shame. It’s rather fetching.”

The kid had lit up. He’d been eye-catching at the table, but now? _Christ._

He’d stepped forward and then backpedaled a bit. “I’m Josiffe.”

“The name’s Bond. James Bond.” 

Josiffe had asked, “Could I please trouble you for—”

“A light? Are you old enough to smoke even?” Bond loved to wind people up.

The resulting blush was _delightful._ But the indignant squawk of “I’m _eighteen!”_ was even better. “Though I don’t smoke. I meant to ask if I could trouble you for”—and he looked up with a delicate hint of a bashful smile—“a kiss?”

“You followed me into the loo to ask me for a kiss?”

“Well, no, I hadn’t thought that far. But I just _had_ to come see you. I couldn’t manage any other way, could I?”

James wanted to clarify that he wasn’t being propositioned, but also he was a fundamentally vain creature. “Is this a habit? Do you often follow men to the loo?”

“No! Never! I just _knew_ when I saw you.”

“Knew what?”

“I just had to be close to you.” He ducked his head. “But since we’re here,” he looked up with a blush and asked, “May I kiss you?”

“Well, since you’ve come all this way and asked so nicely.”

Josiffe giggled. James prepared to be underwhelmed. 

Josiffe might have bumbled his way through the door, and couldn’t maintain eye contact to save his life, but he was sure in this. James enjoyed the feel of his hand in those soft curls, an arm wrapped around that lithe waist, the press of lips…and the cheeky devil’s tongue. The kiss was tender and earnest and full of longing. Not the sort of kiss, James had ever gone in for, but Josiffe sold it.

The kiss ended and Josiffe whispered, “I knew you wouldn’t taste like whisky. I can’t stand the taste of it.”

Josiffe hugged him and buried his nose in James’ neck. There was a soft hitch of breath, and then he inhaled deeply.

James laughed. “What are you doing?!”

Josiffe came up for air, his face cloudy with pleasure, and said, “Memorizing you.” A soft slow blink, those green eyes cleared. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

He didn’t stop to wonder how his heart had gotten mugged by a woodland creature in the loo of a Georgian gentlemen’s club. James kissed him again, now both hands in those curls. He might as well leave an impression.  
  
When it came time to leave, Josiffe splashed water on his face. Instead of handing him a towel, James tilted up his chin to dry him off.

“I splash water on my face. Sometimes. When I get overwhelmed.”

“Are you overwhelmed now?”

He blushed, but held eye contact. “No, but I need an excuse for dallying.”

“Let me be a gentleman and help you back to your seat?”

“A gentleman?”

“I might surprise you.”

The man at Josiffe’s table had looked concerned for Josiffe’s health. 

_He’s not overcome with illness, he just had the daylights snogged out of him._

Bond had said, “Your son was feeling ill. Perhaps some ginger ale and an early night.”

Let it never be said that James Bond was not a bastard.


	6. The Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James walks home and remembers the second.

Now that Q had made him think of that night, their second meeting at Long Bar, it all came back, no longer carefully partitioned away.

It was after Skyfall, once Bond had emerged from his bender, that the new Quartermaster had really caught his eye. He had watched and watched and wanted. He had taken to wandering into Q Branch just to lurk, at all hours. The way Q had been ruffled initially, but over time had finally settled down like a cat and went about his business. Alert, but claws sheathed for now. Bond had taken to bringing him food, no matter what else had changed, that lithe frame demanded feeding up.

But Q had always kept himself slightly removed, accustomed to Bond’s presence, but never exactly welcoming, never reciprocating. Bond had taken to asking him to dinner. Perhaps an ill-fated attempt at stolen kisses. It was after the mission in Bolivia had gone to shit and James had gone to Q instead of reporting to Mallory or medical.

While Q was tending to his minor—for a 00 at least—injuries, Bond had pressed the matter. “Dinner. Come on, Q. You know you want to. Why do you always turn me down? Playing hard to get?” Bond had studied his expression, looking for a tell. “No, that’s not quite it.”

“One dinner, but on my terms.”

“Name them.”

“8pm. Long Bar. In St. James.” Q had appraised his tattered attire and said, “Something a bit smarter and no blood stains.”

Q went back to work, and Bond, Bond just went.

Bond had been sure,  _ so sure, _ that at last, all of his persistent effort would pay off.

“I want you, Q. I want more than dinner, more than fucking. As fucked up as this job is, I want you as much as you’ll let me have you.”

But Q had quite firmly turned him down, citing workplace regs.

“I’m your superior. I  _ can’t.” _

Stung, Bond had said, “I suppose you’ll want me to cut out the banter then or else you’ll have H sodding R write me up?”

Such a rare, open sweet smile blossomed on Q’s face.“My god, I practically live for the banter some days, James. Please don’t cut it out. I mean it. Anything beyond this” he gestured between them, “It’s not allowed.” A touch of fingers then. “I never said it was unwanted.”

Bond had sulked. He had tried for impassive, but he could feel it on his face.

“It’s not forever,” Q had insisted. “James, I will let you know when something changes.”

James had forced down the disappointment, the bile, but said nothing. 

Q had said, “For what it’s worth, I won’t be dating anyone.”

Bond had shrugged it off. “I won’t be waiting around.”

Q had sighed. “I rather expected not.”


	7. In Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which lunch is eaten.

Late the next morning, James Bond arrived at the door to a flat that had not only most definitely not been paid for by MI6, but was not even on their radar. He smoothed his white Tom Ford buttondown and picked some imaginary lint off his grey Brunello Cucinelli trousers, and then quit wasting time and _knocked._

Q—no, not quite Q—answered. _Josiffe._ He opened the door and lounged in the doorway. He looked fetching in an open-collar paisley long-sleeved shirt and Corneliani beige chinos.

And then James had an armful. “James!!” Josiffe flung his arms around James’ neck. “I always knew I’d see you again!!” Then he pulled his head back to look in his eyes. “You remember?”

“Of course I remember. I could never forget you, Josiffe.”

Josiffe beamed and then smacked James’ chest. “I’m quite put out about the wait.” 

“That was most definitely out of my hands.”

“Following orders is for the birds.”

“Too bad we’ve made careers of it.”

“I suppose you can make it up to me. Starting now.”

James held him closer, and pressed his lips to his curls. He remembered the little sigh Q gave when James had told him he wouldn’t wait around for him. He remembered the longing in that first parting embrace, the press of Josiffe’s nose, that little hitch of breath—his heart _ached._

Josiffe piped up, “I’m hungry.”

James gave a little laugh and relaxed his embrace. “Let’s order in.”

“No.”

“We’re to acclimate to our covers before the mission. This flat is safe.”

“I’ve got this under control,” Josiffe said. He took James’ hand. “Come on, I’m starving,” and then looked at their hands and said, “and touch-starved, which seems positively ridiculous with you in my life. Come along then.”

“I was never allowed to touch before,” James said, a bit stunned.

“Yes, well. Let’s get over that, shall we?” He smiled that lovely engaging smile. “I insist.”

The walk to lunch was not entirely unlike going for a walk with an adorable and rambunctious puppy, what with Josiffe bouncing and practically dragging him along.

Finally Josiffe stopped and gave a flourish with his hand. “Here it is.” Then he leaned in just a bit with a quirk of his lips. “It’s a bit… _specialized.”_

It was unremarkable, but in a high class sort of way and had no visible signage. 

“Another private club?” James said. “Surely we’re not dressed for it.”

Josiffe said, “Give the man a top-secret job, give him the highest security clearance. He’s brilliant!” And then he gave a slightly feral grin. “It’s no Long Bar, that’s for certain.” And then he snorted, and pulled him inside.

James was too well-trained to let his jaw drop, but this was not the sort of lunch at a private club he’d been expecting. Josiffe had not specified private _sex_ club. _Minx._

They were shown to an espresso loveseat with end tables and a low wide coffee table in front of it. James’ bum had only just made contact with the upholstery before Josiffe was arranging himself on James’ lap, much to James’ surprise.

“I know it’s meant to be some sort of slow seduction, but I _can’t._ I’ve waited _years,_ James. Look at all the years apart as foreplay, if you want. I am going to smoosh my face into your neck and breathe until I don’t feel like I’m going to burst apart at the seams and then you are going to pamper me.” Josiffe made quick work of the buttons until he could tuck his face into James’ neck. As far as he could tell from the direction of the wiggling, Josiffe wanted his nose in a particular spot because once he found it, he inhaled deeply, like he had remembered all this time and he had just waited and waited to do that again. _Remembering._

Finally Josiffe started to settle, the deep exhalations against his neck frankly tickled a bit.

James held him steady in his left arm and stroked the fingers of his right hand through those long forbidden curls. “Easy, sweetheart.”

Josiffe poked his chest and said, “Relax yourself.” 

Ever the spy, James was watching his surroundings to get a feel for the place and how best to fit in. The food was clearly meant to be shared and for the most part, eaten out of hand. Some couples sat on the loveseats and fed each other. Some Doms had a sub in their lap, while others had one kneeling at their feet. 

He supposed if Josiffe wanted to park himself in James’ lap and be pampered, this place made the most sense. Though he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly Josiffe had in mind.

James pressed his lips to Josiffe’s hair and breathed. He could afford a certain level of relaxation. James stroked up and down his back, and enjoyed the feeling of them relaxing into each other.

It took James a while to work out what Josiffe was repeating. “18 motherfucking years, 219 goddamn months.” 

“Sweetheart?”

A muffled “I know what I want.”

“For lunch?” James asked.

A disgruntled wriggle. “In all things!” But then a softer “I trust you to order lunch though.”

Josiffe was still burrowing and James thought, fair’s fair, and sought skin with his left hand. Along Josiffe’s side where his shirt rode up. Smooth. He got a bit lost imagining the press of his lips against it.

“Sir?” a waiter asked.

James swallowed a sigh and took the proffered menu. He made a quick study and then ordered, “New World Platter please.” 

James went back to soothing Josiffe with tender touches. 

At last, the first of the food arrived. A cup of curried corn chowder was surrounded by thick slices of honey buttermilk bread. James tore a piece off and dipped it in the chowder. He tried the first bite for temperature and taste. 

Then he gave a gentle nudge and quietly said, “Josiffe.”

No response. He had difficulty rousing him, but before too long he found a pet and a kiss would get Josiffe to take a bite. Usually. That irresistible, open expression made the kiss mandatory in any case. At first, James had been careful when dipping the bread into the chowder, but one lingering lick of Josiffe’s exploratory tongue had him eschewing tidiness with abandon. Now the chunk of bread and at least up to the first joint of his finger went into the soup. That curious tongue certainly had him considering submerging his thumb as well. 

Just over halfway through, Josiffe surfaced just enough from his pleasurable haze to realize James had not been feeding himself. 

He _tsk’d_ and tore off some bread, dunked it, and then held it up to James’ mouth.

“No kisses or pets?” James asked. 

Josiffe frowned and made to bring the bread to his own mouth, but James lunged just enough to snatch it with his lips. 

Josiffe frowned harder.

James kissed his nose, and then asked, “Can you blame me for wanting kisses and pets? Truly?” 

Josiffe softened. Then he leaned forward and kissed James above each eye, and then petted the back of his upper arms. 

He raised another piece of bread, “Better?”

“My arms?”

“What? I figure you’re like those statues where everyone always paws the same places.” He arched his back just enough so he could glance at James’ lap and then looked back up and settled back. “Someone has to even things out.” 

“Are you insinuating I have a shiny cock?”

“How should I know? Wouldn’t be surprised if the finish’s a bit rubbed off by now.”

Josiffe squirmed a bit to get comfortable. James didn’t have the heart to hide his warm smile. 

“Now what has you looking so pleased?”

“The feel of your bony arse on my thigh.”

Josiffe said, “Bony arse?” and wiggled with weight and menace.

James stilled him in his arms and corrected, “Lovely, perfectly formed, bony arse.”

“Hmmmph.”

Josiffe looked sceptical, but he went back to feeding James. But before each bite, he kissed and petted James in exceedingly odder places.

Just as James was chewing the last bite, the waiter arrived with the main platter. It contained pork that had been cubed and pan-fried until crisp and tasty, small bowls of tomatillo sauce and sour cream, and sweet potato diced and pan-fried until crisp with cinnamon, cayenne, and salt. 

James fed Josiffe a few bites of each. Everything was quite good, but it was the sweet potatoes that reliably elicited moans. James wondered if he was going to lose a fingertip to Josiffe sucking on them. _That was a nip!_

“Sour cream to ease the burn, sweetheart?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Josiffe took James’ index finger and dipped it in the sour cream and then took his time sucking it off. 

_Fuck._ “I find myself regretting not getting the Fuego Platter.”

Josiffe grimaced, but then finally ducked his head and _giggled._ “Only if you’ve been very naughty, James.”

“I don’t follow.”

Apparently schooling James was worth the embarrassment because his head popped up and he said, “If you’ve been handling chiles, the only mucous membranes you’ll be encountering will be your own. I’ll be happy to watch. And give suggestions.”

James growled and said, “Minx.” Then he nipped along his neck and rubbed his stubble against it. Josiffe nearly shrieked. 

James chuckled until he found his mouth being invaded by pork cubes meant to shut him up no doubt. He nipped at the retreating fingers.

“People are trying to enjoy their meals, _James,”_ Josiffe scolded.

James said, “That lass in yellow is sure enjoying something, but it’s not her lunch.” 

“ _James!”_

James held out a cube of sweet potato as a peace offering. Josiffe eyed it warily, but then folded. They really were tasty.

Josiffe settled down and James behaved himself. He interspersed tender—perhaps even apologetic, though he would likely deny it—kisses between bites. 

At last, James said, “All gone, pet.”

 _Christ._ The pout.

James nuzzled the pout off his face, and then gently peppered him with kisses. 

“It’s like you are petting me with kisses. I like it.”

James lightly rubbed his face against those curls. His hair was so _soft_ and now that he had touched it, had been allowed to touch it once more, he didn’t see how he would ever be able to resist again. Four years since their second first meeting in the National Gallery, eighteen years since the first first meeting at Long Bar. James didn’t want to name the feeling, but if he’d had words, he would have said, “I’ve hated every moment of waiting.” But he moved his mouth along his cheek and instead of words, he nuzzled his ear and held him close.

“Oh _James,”_ Josiffe said with such contentedness that James’ breath hitched.

Now Josiffe was nuzzling him and whispering endearments. James just sat back and enjoyed this warm closeness he hadn’t ever thought he’d have. Not truly. Not beyond idle daydreams when he had been much much younger.

Thankfully, the waiter waited until they had come up for air and rejoined the world at large. “For dessert, chocolate mousse, _lots_ of whipped cream, and red raspberries, and an American style cookie with dried blueberries and dried cranberries.”

After the waiter departed, Josiffe wrinkled his nose and said with no small amount of disgust, “Americans and their _cookies.”_

James made to take the cookie away and Josiffe nipped his fingers.

“I never said I didn’t want it!”

James chuckled, and then broke off a piece and dangled it for Josiffe. 

Josiffe eyed his fingers, but kept the nipping to a minimum, surely too distracted by the taste if the sensuous “Mmmm” was anything to go by.

After three more bites, Josiffe nudged his hand and said, “I appreciate you spoiling me, but you really must try some.”

James held out what was left of the biscuit. Josiffe took a good-sized piece and placed it in James’ mouth and then chased crumbs from James’ lip with his tongue. Once James could speak, he said, “Well, it’s no blaeberry, but it’s not bad for a _cookie.”_

Josiffe rubbed the bridge of his nose against James’ jaw. “I’ve always wanted you to take me blaeberry picking.”

“Truly?”

James could hear the shy soft smile in his voice. “Truly.”

James imagined Josiffe with stained lips, flushed cheeks, and twigs in his hair. He smiled a small true smile and said with a bit of extra gravel in his voice, “I’d like that.”

Once the warmth faded a bit, James picked up the chocolate mousse. Josiffe looked at the spoon askance. 

James growled and then said, “If I feed you chocolate mousse from my fingers, forget making it home, we won’t even make it out of the club.”

Josiffe gave a pleased smirk, but then blushed, then ducked his head. 

“We’ve waited and waited,” James said, “ I like this getting acquainted, learning you.”

Josiffe smiled full bloom, his face lighting up, “I’m really enjoying this slow and tender…” but then he bit his lip and whispered, “It’s just a shame there’s no fried egg.”

James laughed in surprise. “How would that fit in this meal, pet?”

“Who cares, I just want to suck warm yolk off your fingers.” Josiffe rubbed his cheek against Bond’s stubble, and said in his ear, “Lick it off the back of your hand.” And just then he looked up and made eye contact. The heat in those green eyes.

 _"Christ.”_ James rubbed his face and then said, “Careful. You may be feeding yourself the chocolate mousse.”

Josiffe eyed the spoon speculatively.

James snatched it up. “Somehow I fear that might be worse.”

“You should buy me an ice cream cone sometime,” Josiffe said with such innocence that James knew without a doubt, he was doomed. Had been since he first laid eyes on this boy.

James closed his eyes and steadied his breathing.

Soon enough there were lips at his ear and warm breath ghosting over it, “Don’t worry. I’ve been thinking about you taking me right here on this loveseat too.”

James groaned.

Josiffe switched to an innocent no nonsense tone of voice. “I’ll be good. Shall I feed you the mousse first, James?”

James opened his eyes to find a mousse-covered index finger waiting patiently at tongue’s reach.

 _Well then, payback is fair._ James looked forward to the delightful squirming.

First he rearranged them just a bit so he could maintain eye contact. Then he gave him the full-on ice blue smoulder, then slowly extended his tongue just enough to lick the tip and get a taste. Josiffe wiggled his finger ever so slightly in doe-eyed encouragement. James locked eyes, and slowly sucked Josiffe’s finger into his mouth, then used his tongue to his full and considerable advantage—James stopped short of hinting at his lack of a gag reflex. Why spoil a future surprise?—until Josiffe gave an indignant squeak and scolded, “James!”

“Now darling. There’s no shame in coming in your pants.”

“James! I most certainly did not!”

“But close though?”

“Mortifyingly close,” Josiffe grumped. 

James held him closer until he could speak lowly into his ear. “You’ve been writhing around in my lap. You can feel what you do to me. You’re not the only one who is mortifyingly close darling.”

**~~~00~~~**

The walk home was more subdued. The way they walked with Josiffe tucked in under his arm, always touching, the sweet shy flirty looks—since when did a devil like him deserve such a taste of heaven? James didn’t care to question. He would take it with both hands and hold fast.


	8. Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josiffe is sleepy and tickled pink.

Once they’d got back to the flat, Josiffe gave him the tour.

“I’ve been wondering all day. Where are your glasses?” James asked.

Josiffe had such a look of gentle confusion. “But I don’t wear glasses.”

“But the Quartermaster wears glasses,” James said leadingly.

Josiffe gave a chuckle and said, “He’s clever.”

James didn’t hide his look of confusion.

Josiffe pressed a hand to his heart. “James, you were wearing the same exact expression as my beloved dog, Lady Claire, just then.”

“What?”

“Clever people wear glasses.”

“Do you—does he even need glasses?” James asked.

“Well, I imagine he can fit quite a lot of tech into a pair. Can’t exactly weaponize your eyebrows, can you?”

James had to really think about that.

“James?”

James, and Josiffe always only called him James, and James really quite liked it, it warmed something in him. Q was forever codenaming him. Merely surnaming him was almost like a pat on the head, it was a smidge less cold and removed, but he liked this, being called James by this man.

“James?” Josiffe said again to regain James’ attention. “I’m sorry James, do you have a thing for glasses? Is it a dealbreaker that I’m not wearing any?” And then he leaned in conspiratorially and stage whispered, “Can you not get it up otherwise?”

 _Little sodding shite,_ a second’s pause, and then James growled and lifted Josiffe up in the air. He shrieked and James rumbled, “I’ll show you get it up!” And then he threw him on the bed and tickle-kissed him.

When a very pink-faced Josiffe finally finally caught his breath, he said, “I believe you’re doing it wrong.”

“You want more tickles?”

“No! No! It’s just, I’m fully clothed and I’m only winded from laughing.”

James decided that sounded like “extra tickles with a side of stubble please” and happily obliged. He rubbed his prickly chin against Josiffe’s neck. Josiffe laughed and Christ if the sound of that bright joy didn’t unlock something in him. These feelings for Josiffe stirred something inside of him, broke something loose that had been long rusted. Corroded.

James raised himself up on his elbows. “What else?”

“Hmmm?”

“Besides the glasses. Is the Quartermaster’s renowned fear of flying also an affectation?”

He gave a pleased smile and pecked James on the nose.

“It helped explain not being sent into the field, but it also might make it easier to get away, should the need ever arise, because no one will be looking on an airplane for the Quartermaster.”

James adjusted a wayward curl. “You look sleepy.”

“There was”—he gestured to his face—“too much. I couldn’t sleep.”

“No?” James leaned down and kissed the side of his forehead.

“I didn’t have my usual.”

“What’s your usual?”

Josiffe was lying on his back, his inky curls spilling across the pale blue sheets. With his half-closed eyes and lazy smile, it was all James could do not to keep kissing him.

Josiffe said, “Hot milk with two and a half heaping spoonfuls of powdered milk, and a splash of double cream.”

“Are you actually a cat?!”

Josiffe looked puzzled.

James said, “I thought for sure you’d scold me about not giving cats milk.”

“How would I know? I've never been owned by a cat.”

“But you said you had a mortgage and two cats.”

“Oh, James. The _Quartermaster_ said.” He touched James’ chin. “He has an image to maintain. What kind of eccentric-dressing, tea-drinking, gay boffin doesn’t have a cat?” He poked him in the nose. “It’s always been dogs for me.”

James shook his head. “Should we have stopped to get your collection of milks on the way home?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Just because it’s been my usual, doesn’t mean it’s my preference.”

“Oh?”

He relaxed and closed his eyes. “Now be a good Jamesbear and cuddle me.”

“ _Jamesbear,”_ James said in disbelief.

Josiffe cracked open one eye, “You can always shut me up with kisses. Probably.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Still, James took Josiffe in his arms and fully settled onto the bed next to him. He gently petted his curls and kissed them. Josiffe relaxed into his arms, he closed his eyes and gave a little happy sigh.

“Oh, that’s nice. See sometimes you do have good ideas even when you ignore me.”

“You didn’t specify where you wanted the kisses.”

“Clearly on my mouth if you meant to shut me up.”

“Darling. Only a dried-up old fool would want to shut you up or dim that smile.” James rubbed the corner of Josiffe’s mouth with his thumb. “Let me enjoy you, just as you are.”

Both eyes popped open.

James continued, “Your mouth, more specifically your grin was the thing that hooked me. And then…here you come scampering into the loo. Your voice, your laughter, your giggles. I’ll always want to hear you.”

Josiffe welled up

“Darling?” James said.

“Can you mean that?”

“Of course I mean it.”

“You mustn’t say things you don’t mean. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Now I will deny ever having said this, but I can be a grumpy bastard when I’m in a great sulk.”

Josiffe gave a nervous giggle and wiped his eyes.

“You need to know in here”—James touched Josiffe’s chest—“there’s nothing wrong with you. When I growl, and sometime I will, you need to know, you can’t fix that. It’s not you.”

“Oh, James.” Josiffe sighed. “I understand and I’ll try. But I’m not afraid of your bark. Grumble and sulk as you must, but you need to know, if you ever _strike_ me, I will kill you in your sleep. And then bring you back to life and do it again while you’re awake.”

“That’s my boy,” James said and lifted him off the bed until he shrieked and then snogged the daylights out of him.

When they finally came up for air, Josiffe said, “I just threatened to murder you. That turns you on?”

“No, you set out your limits and clear repercussions. Your strength is always a turn on.”

“You know, I wouldn’t mind terribly if you listed off all of the things you like most about me, alphabetical order is optional.”

Josiffe fell asleep to the sound of James’ voice.


	9. Look Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is a grumpy little shite. James rolls up his sleeves.

Now that he’d spent time with Josiffe when he wasn’t forcing himself to make eye contact, not forcing himself to appear unaffected, James couldn’t help but catalog his more natural movements and his reactions and compare. James thought about all those little facial micro movements and even the Quartermaster's posture—just the way he held himself and it was every little thing holding everything in and maintaining that mask, that cover, that armor. Control. Josiffe appeared to just let everything go—more fluid and open. A different sort of grace than the Quartermaster’s, at least on the surface. Naturally shy, poor Josiffe had a bit of a struggle. He basked in the focused attention of James, but then he would blush, would duck his head, and it was delicious.

James must have dozed off, for he woke alone. He lazily stretched and listened. He could hear noises from the other room. He hadn’t gone far then. 

Q, and he knew it was Q from the scowl alone, was wearing one of James’ Sea Island t-shirts. James’ lips curved in satisfaction at seeing it. He watched the grumpy little shite for some time and then said, “What has you looking so pleased?”

Q grumbled, "I went to all the trouble to boot up this god forsaken clunky laptop, I'm going to get some work done.”

"You've just been scrolling Instagram.”

“Oh just fuck off, that's called preemptive rage abatement."

James scoffed.

“If you think I can reign hell when I'm deprived my first cup of Earl Grey, just wait until I've been deprived of my brain-numbing dose of social media.”

“Really. What are you even scrolling through on there?”

"Fuck off, you relic of the punch card era." 

James watched closely. He was following the tag for dormice snoring, rescued donkeys and _that was the third half naked guy._

James unbuttoned the cuffs on his white buttondown and started rolling up his sleeves.

Q quirked his lips. “I wondered how many pictures of men had to be in my feed before you started flexing.”

James was pleased to note that Q’s eyes hadn’t left him once since he’d undone the first button. _That’s it. Worry that poor bottom lip with your teeth._ James tucked in the last of the fabric and then locked eyes and said, “I’ve got something else to numb your brain.”

Q smirked, “Oh do you now?”

“You’ll want to shut off your laptop.”

James guided him to the bedroom, gently stripped him from his shirt and bade him lie down. 

About five minutes in, Q lifted his head just enough to say, “What the fuck? You’re actually giving me a massage?!”

“You’re very tense.”

A short burst of hysterical laughter. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Let me help.”

“I have work to do.”

“Just relax and enjoy this first. I promise you the work will still be there.”

Q laid his head back down. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

Lying there after, half of his face smooshed into the bed, Q opened one eye and said, “Thank you. The massage was lovely. But it did fuck all for the sexual frustration. Ta very much.” 

James touched his hair. “I liked seeing you in my clothes.”

The return of the scowl was not what James had been hoping for. 

Q said, “You need to back the fuck off my clothes.”

James was confused, but knew better than to interrupt whatever he had just unleashed. 

“When someone tells me not to wear something, I just wear it harder. Once I finally had money of my own, and had gotten away from people controlling how I dressed, I started experimenting. I was just coming into my style and I thought I’d branch out a little bit and you bitched endlessly about it.” He frowned. “I just went further into the deep end and I _liked_ it, but finally it got to where it just warmed my heart a bit to try on a piece and think of the disgusted look on your face because any reaction was better than no reaction and—”

“I am the biggest arse.” 

Q looked at him appraisingly, “Sexiest arse maybe.”

“Arsiest arse.”

“That too.”

James said, “Well, I’ll have to admit they did grow on me. I nearly got misty-eyed when I heard you lost your mustard yellow and bog brown cardigan to that printer cartridge mishap.”

Q swatted at him. “You did not!”

“Well, I knew you’d be sad.” He touched Q’s lower lip. “You certainly pouted about it.” 

“I did not!”

“Fine, it was a micro pout. But your eyes were that little bit sad, and—” he touched his lip again. 

Q nipped at his finger.

“—you were sticking your lower lip out. Just a hair. But I saw it.”

Q scowled. “Nosiest arse.”

“Enough of my arse, I’d rather turn my attention to yours.”

”You.” Q flicked him softly on the forehead. “Have the worst lines. Now what was that you were saying earlier about my perfectly formed arse?”

“Not even watercress tattersall could put me off your perfectly formed _bony_ arse.”

“ _Watercress?!_ You uncultured swine!” And now Q was digging his fingers into James’ ribs. “You spend the GDP of a small country on Saville Row! You bloody well know proper color names!”

“I’d never deign to buy anything in that color.”

“I sure hope you have more imagination in bed than you do in your wardrobe.”

James looked at the still digging fingers. “Is that supposed to tickle?”

“No, it’s supposed to be 1/100,000 as annoying as you are. Now fuck off!”

Q made to roll over and get up and out of bed. James caught him in his arms. Q growled in frustration. 

“Where are you going?”

“To corner the market on _watercress_ clothing. Where do you think? I told you telling me not to just makes me wear it harder.”

“What you said was negative attention was better than no attention. And I plan to give you,”—James made to kiss at his hairline, but was rebuffed—“if you’ll let me, as much positive attention as you’ll tolerate.”

“It will take more than sucking me off in a changing room to get me to submit to a makeover.”

“ _Q._ Nothing like that. I don’t want to maneuver you into doing anything. Besides, you think I want the perverts who work in security getting off on watching you get off?” 

Q gave a half kick. James relaxed his arms.

“Now that you’ve told me. I’ll stop being such an _arse_ about it. Buy what you like, what makes you feel good. Don’t settle for a “fuck you” to me. I’ve hurt you terribly. For a long time. You can tell me and show me as much as you like, but don’t deny yourself what brings you comfort or even joy as a fuck you to me. You’re much more clever than that. And you have unlimited access now.” 

“You haven’t hurt me terribly.”

“Haven’t I?”

Q mumbled, “I don’t want to think about it, much less talk about it.” Then he got up and left the room.

James laid back down on the bed and pressed his palms against his eyes. “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell that I saw "Knives Out" last week? James' forearms are courtesy of Benoit Blanc.


	10. Shop, Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James buys things for tea. They do not have tea.

When James emerged some time later, Q appeared to be engrossed in his laptop. James went into the kitchen and surveyed the fridge and kitchen cupboards. 

“I’ll just nip out to the shops, so I can fix tea if you’d like.”

Without looking up, Q said, “If you’d like.”

**~~~00~~~**

Q watched as James unpacked his shopping totes. His lip quirked at the milk, powdered milk, and double cream.

“Why that tea?” Q asked.

“You keep this kind locked in your desk drawer, so I thought it was a safe bet.”

“Nosiest arse.”

James held up an onion and Q wrinkled his nose.

James said, “I don’t know why you always order your sandwich with onions, but then never eat them.” 

“I don’t like the taste of raw onions, but the sandwich doesn’t taste right to me without the smell of onions.”

They finished putting the groceries away.

“You even got the butter I prefer. I didn’t mean for you to go to this much trouble.”

“You didn’t need me to kill anyone yet. So I figured I could cook.”

“You’re of more use than that.”

“I don’t know, I hear the finish’s rubbed off.”

 _“You,_ James. Not your cock.”

James shrugged 

Q slumped a bit and James wrapped his arms around him.

“Thank you. The massage did help. I—the stress was just getting to me. So much is out of my control. But you need to know I’m confident. Too many factors are in play to plan for every single thing, but I’ll bring us through this, James.” 

“If you’re not starving, let’s go sit a while.” 

Q sat on the couch beside James, not on him. James found he missed it. He wrapped an arm around Q’s shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, it’s just—I’ve been pulling at threads to see where they go and I just want to—” He turned to face James. “I wasn’t kidding about grudges. I know we have to bide our time.” 

“But you’re feeling a little bloodthirsty?”

Q huffed.

James nosed aside the curls behind Q’s ear.

“Mmm, I’d seek you out after a mission, before the bloodthirstiness was truly gone. Just so you’d touch me when you tended my wounds. Always wanted a kiss though.”

“I couldn’t. That was the price to be near you, to watch over you—to never freely touch you. I wanted, I’ve _always_ wanted…” 

James said, “I have never been unaffected by you. No matter the form.”

Q kissed him and then said, “I don’t want to fight or squabble. We can eat later. Take me to bed, James.”


	11. An End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Q sleeps and James succumbs to dreaded THINKING.

James didn’t fool himself. At least not often. This, all this doing was for James’ benefit. Q was not doing this for himself. James—now that it had been spoken aloud—was the one to be forcibly retired. Perhaps not soon, but it was beginning to loom and he had been too set in his dense ways to acknowledge it other than a gruff grunt toward the mission he would not return from. It seemed inevitable didn't it? From the start? That he would go out in a bang. Literally.

James mused over Q’s promising career in espionage. It wasn’t a lie, the kid was bloody brilliant. And of course he was not a kid, but Christ he looked younger than his age. Much more so when he was like this. Q was brilliant. He could be Quartermaster for decades still. 

And James had thought he could not be bothered—to even consider a life beyond active service—at least for himself. But this? If he could have this? He would burn the world down before he let this go.

The idea, the very beginning thoughts of James standing idly by while Q was forcibly retired. _Murdered._ Assassinated or perhaps worse, that intelligence—that spark cored out of him—he’d had bullet wounds that hurt less. And then the thought of James being the one ordered to pull the trigger, contract the piano wire, tighten his hands until Q’s struggling body went lifeless in them. Or would he not struggle? Would he just look James in the eye with the same disapproving look of betrayal. _One last bit of tech you couldn’t resist destroying, 007?_ That arched eyebrow. _Really? How common and disappointing of you._

James was up and out of bed and standing at the bathroom sink. Wrists locked, his weight resting on his palms.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out._

_Fucking Christ._ He looked at himself in the harsh light. These thoughts at this hour, he should look more haggard. He stared into the mirror. Sheer force of will would see him through this.

No. Q was absolutely right to pull Bond aside for a bit of retirement planning. Q was in the driver’s seat. Q was in charge. Bond would follow orders. This was absolutely important. Bond would follow orders.

Bond did not follow orders.


End file.
